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Ramsey Baartholomew's diary
~*~ Let Me Ram This Home To You People will tell you, in this day and age, romance is dead. I agree. I am the epitome of romance. Princesses swoon, noblemen will ask for my hand. And I like to think I’m pretty dead inside. Ergo, romance is dead. Who I am, you ask? Why, you don’t know my name? Nothing at all about the grandest romantic, the most devastatingly handsome and tragic of all gentlemen whom you will one day call King? I didn’t really hexpect that you would. But you will. And maybe you’ll scream my name, or address it in beautiful, practised cursive, escorted by doodled hearts and soft lips smeared in tint upon the envelope. Point is, I’m Ramsey Baartholomew. At Ever After High, I’m one of the elite. I study among princes, I’m from an honourable Madame D’Aulnoy tale, I’m one of the Enchanted Husbands. Eligibility-wise, I think I have a lot to offer. But I’m sure love - real love, the kind filled with determination and trust in fairytales - is found from more than just a neat resume of traits. I’m more than a list of my accomplishments. I’m an entire human being, or cursed-sheep-to-be. I don't know what I'm getting at. But I do think I write pretty beautifully though, so you're a fool if you haven't tricked yourself into thinking you adore me yet. Chapter 1 I know I say that I’m dead inside a lot, but I don’t think I’m wrong. For starters, I can actually talk to the dead, like ghosts and such, and I think we have a lot in similar. Let’s see: the dead are desperate for company. They flock towards people, craving human interaction, and try to live the lives they never got to live through other people. Unfortunately, I relate. Can you believe it, Ramsey Baartholomew, yearning for conversation and banter? I could get that anywhere - I could have girls falling over me and rendezvous in darkened corridors, but instead, I find myself frequenting cemeteries. I mean, ghosts were once people too, right? And they carry things. Their past lives, and history with that. And wisdom and thought and advice and so, so, so many stories. Things I value. Or rather, things I’d value more if I wasn’t a touch-starved teenage king-to-be with a deathdate over my head and five centuries of legacy to live up to. Right, so I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself and my story. You know my name, and I’m the next King Ram. I’m meant to rule over princes cursed into sheep form and the ghosts of some irrelevant forest in the French wilderness. I’m supposed to marry a princess (and I think - the marriage is out of pity, though I’m not sure if I’m the one being pitied or she is), and dramatically die of heartbreak. It’s very standard. I know at least a dozen princes in my situation, and I fae-rly sure I’ve seen at least a quarter of those in even more compromising situations. How angst-filled do you think I’m am, that when I’m bored of people and want more interesting people, I find myself in the local cemetery? I’ll find myself making a wide berth past Ever After High’s actual gothic romantics, and I’ll find myself searching for ghosts in the woods near it, because those tend to be more fun than the ones that just chill in the tomb park. Today, I did just that. What would you hexpect, other than for me to step into those very woods, and watch ghosts materialise before my eyes? But today, there were no ghosts. Only ghost. “My King. Sire, I seek your aid.” Chapter Two Category:Fanfiction Category:Original Character Fanfiction Category:Diaries Category:Zena's Storybook Collection Category:Diaries by DatAsymptote